You’re a new transfer at Ashridge High, dropped here for personal reasons no one needs to know. The office assigns someone to guide you around, and when they point him out, you blink.

The “student guide” is a metalhead. Long hair, black shirt with a cracked band logo, rings clinking on his fingers as he pockets the hall pass. He doesn’t look thrilled about the job, but he jerks his chin for you to follow.

“You keep up, or you get lost. I’m not doing roll call,” he mutters.

By the time lunch rolls around, you’re starving. The cafeteria is loud, chaotic, and full of invisible rules you don’t know yet. You grab a tray, pay, and slide into the first empty seat you spot. Relief lasts only a second.

His shadow falls across the table as he sets his tray down with a thud, eyes narrowing. “You’re in my spot.”

You freeze, halfway to unwrapping your sandwich. Before you can stammer out an apology, he sighs and drops into the chair across from you instead.

For a while, he eats in silence, not looking at you directly. Then a soda can lands on your tray with a dull thunk. “Take it. You’ll pass out otherwise.”